


5 Stages

by Jabbersense



Category: Gintama
Genre: Chapter 568 Spoilers, Character Study, Injury, Joui War, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 17:22:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5425460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jabbersense/pseuds/Jabbersense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Healing is more than a physical process. [Gintama Chapter 568 Spoilers]</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 Stages

**Author's Note:**

> The title refers to the "five stages of grief" in psychology. I meant to placate my Sakamoto feels with a 500 word sketch, but then this became its own monster of x9 that length! This my longest fic ever, and I really hope you enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it!
> 
> P.S. Sorry for any typos I didn't catch!

**[Denial]**

For the first time in Sakamoto’s life, a sword feels awkward in his hand. He tests himself, outstretching his arm and then snapping his wrist, shifting the blade from perpendicular to parallel with the ground. A pair lesser eyes would judge his movements as flawless, but Sakamoto knows better— he needs to _be_ better. Fighters with lesser eyes aren’t going to be the real threat in battle, and sloppy swordsmanship saves no one.

“Ne, Kintoki!” He squawks into the sky at full volume, scaring away actual the birds. He knows Gintoki’s around here somewhere. That loose canon has been slinking around him like a cat for the past week since the accident. “How do ya do it?”

A clump of white hair emerges from behind a tree, and crossing his arms, Gintoki shoots daggers at Sakamoto with those trademark half-lidded eyes, “ _Gin_ toki, goddammit!”

“Ahahahaha! There ya are! Ya ain’t slick, Kintoki!” Sakamoto chucks the blade over his shoulder and starts strolling his gangly limbs forward. They meet halfway. “But really, ahaha! D’ya mind teachin’ me how ya do it?”

“Ah? I dunno know what’cher talkin’ ‘bout,” slurs Gintoki lazily while sizing Sakamoto up and down, digging for earwax with his pinky finger. Sakamoto cringes good-naturedly at his friend’s candid grossness. How little Gintoki gives a fuck is awe-inspiring.

“Usin’ yer left hand of course! I’ve seen ya fight with two swords plenty of times before! Ahahaha, It’s really amazin’ I hafta admit!” He tilts his head with an enticing smirk, swinging his sword in a small circle as if he were a kid again twirling a magic wand.

Gintoki stiffens, and for the life of him, Sakamoto can’t figure out why, at least, not until those strange, rusty red eyes give it away. They steal a panicked glance at his bandaged and splinted arm in a sling, and Sakamoto automatically clenches his jaw, terribly self-conscious of himself. One more wordless second ticks by, and the air transforms, coagulating into something thick and unpleasant. Sakamoto gulps hard.

“Tatsuma,” Gintoki opens warily, deliberately using Sakamoto’s first name, “I don’t think that’s the best idea. Being ambidextrous is something you either have or don’t, not including the years of practice if you do.”

Though it’s the gentlest _no_ Sakamoto has ever received, the weight of the answer is enough to knock the wind out of him. His heart his plummets into his stomach, and all of his guts churn. A fist flies to his mouth to smother a burp. Oh, shit. He’s going to throw up...

Gintoki’s at a loss. He doesn’t know how to handle Sakamoto’s disappointment. A queasy Sakamoto isn’t worth a second thought (easy fix, just let him barf), but a disappointed Sakamoto? That’s something he’s never experienced before.

It takes a certain person of pedigree to handle those who wear their hearts on their sleeve, and Gintoki’s the exact opposite of well bred. Fuck, he was _literally_ a feral child.

All he knows is that Sakamoto deserves better than pity, but knowing what _not_ to do still doesn’t give him a clue about what the hell _to_ do. Wait, that’s it. Do nothing. The young master’s grown. It’s his life, and he needs to sort through this himself.

“Get that ass moving,” Gintoki smacks Sakamoto’s butt as he jogs past him, trying to fake the feeling of having trained. “It’s almost dinner, and I’m starved. Get pumped for gruel.”

Sakamoto sheaths his sword and agrees, “Mmm, ‘kay.” He saunters behind the bobbing silhouette of white, long strides easily maintaining a short distance between them.

Gintoki takes note at how Sakamoto doesn’t laugh.

* * *

**[Anger]**

Having defunct a right hand is really starting to irritate him. Yes, of course it constantly aches and that sucks, but his real grievance is at how all the small things are adding up. _Only_ having a non-dominant hand to function with is pure torture (especially for someone as hyper as he). It seems like every other soldier is running circles around him.

His left hand is clumsy and slow. It takes forever to bathe, to dress himself. Using chopsticks is damn near impossible, and he’s cursed good manners to hell, opting to stab his food when necessary. And if using chopsticks with his left hand is damn near impossible, then forget about writing because that’s _actually_ impossible with his left hand.

However, none of those reasons top his list of why having a worthless right hand is maddening. It’s incredibly petty, but what Sakamoto misses the most about having both arms is being able to sleep on his side. His whole life he’s snoozed on his right side with his right arm underneath his head. Now he’s forced to lie on his back like a corpse, and he fucking hates it.

It takes him forever to fall asleep on his back, and somehow that’s led him to stargazing at night to help pass the time. This particular night is tranquil—ideal for cosmic voyeurism—and he’s itching to help himself to an eyeful. They’re pathetically rounded up like cattle in a barn for shelter, so Sakamoto has to silently tiptoe around and in-between the spaces of scattered limbs until he can slip through the front doors into the fresh night air.

He inhales deeply once outside, and a stupid grin breaks across his face. He’s a city boy, but there’s something about that country air that’s stolen his heart. It’s almost as satisfying as the salty winds of the sea.

Left arm cradling his right, he drops his head back, and his jaw falls open. There’s no light pollution where they are, and he can see the entire Milky Way. Every innumerable star shimmers, and a meteor or two zip by. There are colors of pink, orange, and purple and more colors of green, blue, and gray… His eyes flit everywhere. He doesn’t know where to look. 

It’s absolutely humbling.

Feeling small is something Sakamoto’s not familiar with. He’s always been tall amongst his peers from childhood into adulthood. Yet the universe manages to make him feel even more than small. It makes him feel utterly insignificant.

Muted shouts shatter his reverie, and Sakamoto leapfrogs into some nearby bushes. His soldier’s sense switches on. Could it be enemies scouting their location? He silently berates himself for not bringing a weapon, but as the voices become clearer, he chokes on his own spit. These voices are as distinct as the personalities that own them.

“Fuck you! Why’d you have to say anything at all, you stupid, clueless runt?” The dull thud of a shove, “This is all your fuckin’ fault! You just had to push him over the edge like that! You know he asked me to teach him to use his left hand?” It’s Gintoki.

A voice hisses back, “You’re fucking assuming things! I was being realistic, and he knows that! Ask him! He won’t blame me for shit! You should be blaming the enemy! That slash almost completely severed the tendons in his forearm! That arm’s going to have limited mobility if it ever heals at all!” Takasugi. 

“Stop it! You’ll wake everybody up, including him!” A third voice pleads.

Gintoki and Takasugi bark in unison, “Shut the fuck up, Zura!”

Sakamoto hears a scuffle pick up between the three, but two swift, solid punches abruptly end it.

“It’s not Zura; it’s Katsura.” Their leader’s voice drops an octave, deadly serious, “Both of you said your peace that day to him, and both of you are just going to have to live with that.”

Guilty silence.

“Good. Neither of you are to speak another word of this again. Now, I don’t care if you go to bed or not, but you two do have to separate.” There’s an authoritative _shlink_ of metal, a hand unsheathing a sword partway, “Am I understood?" 

Sets of feet eventually shuffle off, and Sakamoto is left sitting there behind the bushes. He doesn’t know when he started crying, but the hot tears streaming down his face are irrefutable proof. He laughs mirthlessly and punches the ground repeatedly, each hit harder than the last. It kills him that his friends are searching for someone to blame when the only person at fault is himself for not being good enough.

* * *

**[Bargaining]**

“Oi, Sakamoto- _obocchan_! Is that young Tatsuma?”

Sakamoto tosses his head over his shoulder to see a corpulent yet extravagantly dressed older gentleman waving at him. Surrounding the man is an entourage. Sakamoto’s eyes open wide with greed, and he chews his bottom lip to busy himself. He cannot afford to screw this up.

“Ahaha! Matsui-sama!” Sakamoto cranks the dial on his smile to a thousand watts. He tucks the wad of bills he’s filched from Katsura into his yukata and bows deeply, “So good ta see a familiar face ‘round these parts!”

It’s been two and a half weeks since the accident, and Sakamoto’s taking a solo excursion into a neighboring port town for the day. His brothers-in-arms are tolerant of his truant behavior. They understand he needs to disappear randomly in order to accumulate supplies for the war effort. However, Sakamoto would prefer to keep them in the dark about how he swipes money from the communal reserve each time he strays off. He’s doesn’t consider himself technically stealing though. What he takes, he always replaces and then some. 

“What are you doing by yourself here, my boy?” Mr. Matsui asks, waddling to where Sakamoto is standing. His entourage follows in formation. 

 _I’m in a port town_ fishin’ _, of course,_ he wants to say, but instead he scratches his head and bashfully admits with boyish charm, “It’s my turn to run the errands, ahahaha.”

“Sakamoto- _obocchan_ , coerced into running errands? I thought I’d never see the day!” The older gentleman chortles heartily, and his entourage brainlessly parrots. Sakamoto joins in too for good measure.

 _Let ‘im think he’s special, parta the club,_ he narrates in his mind. “Ahahaha! Well, it’s not all glorious work, Matsui-sama,” Sakamoto’s tone is cheery, but his gaze is cryptic.

The light bulb of realization flickers on above Mr. Matsui head.

“Son! And this,” curious sausage fingers hold the elbow of Sakamoto’s right arm, “Is this from your more…glorious…work then?”

 _Sell it_ , Sakamoto urges himself, and he flinches at the touch. “All parta the cause, Matsui-sama. Aahaha,” he plasters on a phony pained smile. 

Mr. Matsui recoils his hand in horror, but Sakamoto steps in close, blinking mistrustfully both ways. He doesn’t want the passersby or Mr. Matsui’s entourage overhearing. Sakamoto’s mindful of speaking about his allegiance. It’s for his own sake— as well as the sakes of everybody getting involved with him.

Allowing his intense stare to smolder, Sakamoto professes solemnly, “I know that I’m young man, still needin’ ta prove hisself, Matsui-sama. Anythin’ fer my family’s name n’ my country." 

He can see the pride swell in the old man’s chest. “Your father’s very blessed to have son like you. All I have are daughters long married off. I’ll be sending him a letter that I’ve seen you and that I’m very impressed.”

 _Almost there!_ Sakamoto snaps his fingers behind his back in impatient eagerness. _Let ‘em have a character they can daydream ‘bout. His kind are always hopeless romantics for heroics._

“It would be much appreciated, Matsui-sama. As ya can see, my right hand’s kinda useless, ahaha.  Wont’cha lemme get ya a drink for yer sentiment?” He mischievously pulls out Katsura’s money, “I may be far from home, but I haven’t forgotten how ta properly allocate my funds! Ahahahaha!”

“Oho! How charismatic is your cheek! I certainly am most jealous of your father!” Mr. Matsui booms, “He is one of my most trusted business partners. What kind of an uncle would I be if I didn’t take care of you when I could? We merchants have to look out for each other since society refuses!”

With a wave of his hand, Mr. Matsui dismisses his entourage and throws the same arm around Sakamoto, sealing the deal with a whisper, “Whatever you spend on me, I’ll match fiftyfold. Regale an old man and remind him about being young, bold, and brave again. Come! I know a nice, private bar tucked away."

 _Hook, line, n’ sinker!_ Sakamoto flashes his very best smile, the one he usually saves for only the prettiest of girls, “Matsui- _ojisama_ yer too kind! I’ll halfta let my old man know ‘bout yer kindness in a letter once this damned arm of mine heals!”

He winks a stunning blue eye at the fat cat merchant. _You scratch my back, n’ I’ll scratch yours._ They swagger down the street, reminiscing about better times.

Sakamoto, here, takes a moment beside himself to barter with whatever deity may be out there listening, _See?_ _I did good today, didn’t I? If I can squeeze the best outta this man, so everybody can protect themselves ta fight another day, won’tcha_ please _let my arm heal back ta normal?_  

He thinks it’s a pretty good deal at least.

* * *

**[Depression]**

Sakamoto’s lying on his back gnashing his teeth as Katsura peels off his bandages. A _tsk_ escapes the man known as The Rampaging Noble (or Runaway Kotarou, depending on who you ask). Sakamoto’s arm looks like it’s dead. It’s no longer swollen, but it is bruised back and yellow up to the elbow. The enormous scab from the actual gash runs halfway down the length of his forearm. It’s thick and itchy, and it’s starting to grow over the stitches from a month ago. They have to be taken out.

“Clench your fist,” Katsura instructs, elevating the limb. Sakamoto tries hard to, but his fingers _barely_ curl before his whole arm starts to burn, so he gives up.

“Ahahaha,” he chuckles woozily, “Ya don’t have much of a poker face, Zura. Give it ta me straight.”

“It’s not healing as quickly as I’d like,” Katsura confesses, skipping over his catchphrase, “But it’s a miracle it hasn’t gotten infected yet. You’re past the most vulnerable stage, the rate of infection decreases from here on out.”

“In other words, you should feel lucky that you haven’t already lost your arm, and you most probably won’t either.”

Sakamoto and Katsura crane their necks to see Takasugi stepping into the tent, the entrance flap falling behind him and screening the too-bright sunlight.

“Takasugi,” Katsura spits the name rather than uses it as a greeting.

His arm is still on fire, but through the agony Sakamoto snickers, “Ahahaha. Well, shit. If I lose this arm, then I really won’t be able ta peel an apple.”

Takasugi sets next to Katsura some supplies wrapped in a cloth, a large pan filled with hot water, and a pillow. Katsura’s full attention is still on his patient, and he curtly thanks Takasugi while delicately placing Sakamoto’s arm on the ground.

The Kiheitai Commander scoffs, “If you need anything more, go find somebody else.” He then turns to acknowledge Sakamoto, nodding once with surprisingly kind eyes, "Don't tie yourself down in another petty war again." 

Takasugi swoops out of the tent without another word. 

“That bastard,” Katsura harrumphs.

“Sometimes I wonder how we all became friends, ahaha. He's rough 'round the edges, but he means well."

“Speak for yourself. I’m not his friend,” Katsura dips the cloth into the hot water and lets it soak. “We were schoolmates, and now we’re comrades. That’s it.” He pulls out the drenched cloth, and presses it against Sakamoto’s wound.

The famously handsome general of the joui rebels switches his position from kneeling to sitting cross-legged. He puts the pillow Takasugi brought in on his lap and takes Sakamoto’s arm again, gently setting it on top of the pillow.

He graciously hesitates, “Ready?”

Sakamoto covers his eyes with his left arm and tenses in anticipation, “On yer mark.”

Katsura folds over the wet cloth a few inches and begins.

Sakamoto's breath hitches, and a groan rips from his throat.

He swears, moans, hisses, and whines, but Katsura, as patient as a saint, doesn’t react to anything. The tugging of the catgut strings isn’t the worst. No, Katsura’s wary to pull out the pieces slowly. It’s Sakamoto’s unsupported arm—no bandages, no splint, no sling—that’s the worst _._ His arm is limp and throbbing and raw, and the pain makes the seconds pass like hours.

They stay in their own worlds until Katsura’s completely done re-wrapping, re-splinting, and re-slinging the arm.

He helps Sakamoto sit up, quickly piling the pillow and some other random supplies behind him to make a backrest. He settles down by Sakamoto’s left in the opposite direction, so that they’re directly facing each other.

“I apologize. We don’t have any pain killers left.”

“Ahahaha, that’s alright. You got any booze instead?” Sakamoto playfully wiggles his eyebrows, but Katsura’s expression stays blank.

“Fuck, Tatsuma, I’m sorry.”

Sakamoto’s somewhat startled, both at his undecorated first name and at the uncharacteristic swearing.

“Zura, it was a joke! I'm fine! I can tough it out. I—”

“No, Tatsuma. That’s not it. You should know,” Katsura buries his face in his hands, “The state of your arm is my fault. You needed a surgeon, but we didn’t have the skills or the means. It was me who decided to sew your arm shut as is. You needed your tendons and probably some veins repaired, but I was scared you’d bleed out or lose the arm before we could find somebody. That was my call—“

Sakamoto interrupts by swatting Katsura’s hands away from his face, “Oi, oi! When have I blamed ya for anythin’? It ain’t yer fault!”

Katsura stops talking but pointedly looks away. Sakamoto can see his eyes welling up.

“’Sides I knew all that already,” he continues on. “I heard y’all fightin’ a while ago that one night. Please don’t blame anybody, n’ if you have ta blame somebody, blame me for makin’ myself vulnerable like that.”

Hazel eyes glare at him, watery and indignant. “Don’t give me that. You saved lives!”

“Yeah, but at the price of my sword hand. Guess I’m gonna have ta make peace with that day and live with it, ahahaha.” With some detachment, Sakamoto senses himself shutting down. He never anticipated how visceral things would seem after repeating that line.

“…I did say that to them….”

“Ahaha, asshole. Ya think I was lyin’? I was takin’ a dump behind a tree,” he blows a raspberry to add some lightheartedness in his toilet humor.

“Disgusting,” Katsura wipes away rogue tears with a reluctant giggle. “You were not. We would’ve noticed.”

“Made ya laugh! I win, ahahaha,” Sakamoto smiles hopefully, and with that, the last of Katsura’s defenses crumble.

“C’mere,” he mutters, reaching for the wisecracking fool in front of him.

Sakamoto can’t remember the last time he’s hugged someone, but he’s not proud enough to pretend he doesn’t need this, so he lets himself relax into Katsura’s arms. Sniffles tickle the crook of his neck, and Sakamoto’s certain Katsura needs this as well.

The two samurai embrace tighter and chase away their sadness with unsolicited tears and embarrassed laughter.

“There ain’t nothin’ to feel guilty ‘fer. Ya got enough ta worry ‘bout. Kintoki n’ Bakasugi fer example.”

“You’re so bad,” Katsura shakes his head, tight-lipped and miserably failing to hide his amusement, “And I’m so bad for thinking those names are funny.” He pushes himself up using his leg and wags a finger at Sakamoto like a mother, “Rest.”

A small salute from Sakamoto makes for a satisfied Katsura, who then takes his leave.

Once he’s sure Katsura’s gone, Sakamoto strips off his mask and his upper layers of clothing. He heaves a heavy sigh. Who a charming smile and a silver tongue can fool is amazing.

He sleeps in his tent for four days straight, and on the fifth day when he finally saunters out for a piss and a bite of to eat, Katsura, Gintoki, and Takasugi are all alarmed by his appearance. He looks like a walking skeleton— thinner than a rail with a gaunt, hollow face.

Each passing day Sakamoto's natural enthusiasm for life wanes. He knows everybody can see it, and he honestly doesn’t care.

* * *

  **[Acceptance]**

“I’m tall. I can do this,” Sakamoto reassures himself, but he’s really not comforted by his words. It’s true that he’s tall. However, the wall of the temple perimeter is taller still. He runs over his plan in his head for the umpteenth time. Step here, grab that, and remember most of your power comes from your legs and core. Yes, yes. There’s nothing more he can tell himself.

He exhales nervously.

Sakamoto swings his arms back and brings them forward into a clap, “ _Yosh!_ Go!”

He feels like he’s scaling the perimeter wall as skillfully as ninja, but he’d bet he looks like an oversized, drunk monkey instead. He briefly rests on the perimeter wall’s roof to catch his breath before flinging himself to his real destination, the (higher) roof of the main entrance gate.

After rolling a few times on broken tiles like a sack of potatoes, he pops and laughs triumphantly, “AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I DID IT!” 

Adrenaline is coursing through Sakamoto, making him feel punch-drunk and invincible. Shaking with excitement, he pushes up his right sleeve and inspects his arm, turning it over. It’s going to be hurting in the morning, but screw it. This is totally worth it.

Some small part of him considers that he may be pushing his limits, but it also has almost been two months since that day. He’s sick of surviving and is ready to get back to living. 

Sakamoto plops down and stretches his legs butterfly. Holding his chainmail coif in place with a hand, he tosses his head back and inhales as deeply as his lungs will allow him. The country air never disappoints. It’s always as sweet and as crisp as he remembers. The city boy savors the next few breaths like they’re fine _sake_.

Though he grew up in a city, Sakamoto’s hometown is foremost a seaport, and his mind wanders to swimming. His arm doesn’t ache when he swims, no matter how much he moves it, and he next finds himself wondering about swimming in that incomprehensible, beautiful vastness above him. What it would be like to jump in and swim through that glittering sea? How it would feel on his skin? How many stars could he collect in a diving bag, and is the core of the Milky Way galaxy actually a current? He wants it to sail him through the horizon to the edge of the universe, off towards a new adventure and into the unknown.

“Only monkeys and idiots like high places,” drawls a familiar voice.

Sakamoto jerks to see Gintoki making himself comfortable a few feet away. He hadn’t heard him climb up. Had he been that wrapped up in his stargazing? 

“Ahaha, that’s great! I’m the monkey and yer the idiot!”

“Oi! Get fucked, you shaggy mophead!”

“I definitely get fucked on the regular, ya shaggier mophead! N’ I also definitely don’t hafta fight over a female with Takasugi n’ lose ta him too! Ahahaha!”

Gintoki stutters incoherently, stumped for a better comeback, and Sakamoto revels in his verbal victory.

“Ahahaha! Demon got yer tongue, Mr. Shiroyasha?” He gloats, “Kintoki, yer game is off!”

“Okay, now you’re just pissin’ me off! You can recall that _one_ fuckin’ time, but you can’t recall my name?” Gintoki resorts to blackmail, “Perhaps I’ll _recall_ mentioning to Zura that you’re abusing your arm. I’ve been covering for you, you ungrateful dickhead.”

“Psh, that ain’t no threat. How much ya wanna bet he already knows? ‘Sides, who is he ta reprimand me? My ma?”

“Yes,” states Gintoki matter-of-factly, “He is. C’mon, you should know by now that’s he’s the mom. Think about it. He’s even got the dead anime mom hairstyle to prove it. " 

They cover their faces to stifle their laughter, but it’s a law of the universe that things you ought not to laugh at are the funniest. Sakamoto and Gintoki sneak a peek at each other and immediately burst out into their most obnoxious cackles and guffaws.

“That wasn’t the point of me coming up here,” Gintoki amends as he rubs his eyes and clears his throat to calm himself. “I don’t know who you sold your soul to, but your last haul really saved our sorry asses. It’s some high quality shit, and there’s lots of it to spare.”

“Eh,” Sakamoto yawns, exhausted from all the laughing, “That’s business." 

“Look, I know they don’t thank you nearly as often as they should, so I’m here to do it for them. Thanks, Tatsuma. We really appreciate what you do.”

“Ahaha, thanks, K-Kintoki,” his voice breaks. He can’t help it. “M-means a lot ‘cuz… Well, it means I-I _can_ still fight this war in my own way.”

The feared Shiroyasha flashes a toothy, brilliant smile that rivals Sakamoto’s own, and Sakamoto can feel himself flushing because of it.

“What?” Gintoki inquires devilishly, “Demon got your tongue?”

Mortified, Sakamoto refuses to answer and lets silence blanket them. It’s a perfectly fine option because for he and Gintoki, shared silence is just as comfortable as sparring banter.

For how long he debates with himself, Sakamoto’s not too sure. All he knows is that he has this gut instinct, and he reasons if he’s going to tell anybody, it ought to be Gintoki. Out of everybody, he’s the one person that deserves to know. Sakamoto owes him so much.

Fixated on the radiant night sky and wishing on all the shooting stars out there—visible or invisible—he begins, “I’ve decided. I’m gonna go ta space. Crawlin’ on earth here, there’s no use resistin’ the tide of change. The only thing comin’ outta this fight is our friends dyin’ in vain, n’ I don’t wanna see anymore friends die. Ever since _then_ I’ve realized I’ve gotta live with a higher point of view, a point of view so high that both earthlin’s and amanto look the same. That’s why I’m going ta space. Yeah, while floatin’ in a huge ship in space, I’ll scoop up fish and stars.

“What do ya think ‘bout that, Gintoki? Yer much too good a person ta stay cooped up on this tiny rock. Come with me.” Sakamoto’s heart is pounding. He closes and eyes and beams at his friend, trying his very best to be convincing.

Yet snores are the only response he hears.

Sakamoto’s eyes fly open, and a vein throbs in his temple, “AHAHAHAHAHA! HEY, HEAVENS! PLEASE SEND A METEOR CRASHIN’ DOWN ON THIS BASTARD, YA HEAR? AHAHAHAHAHA!”

All awhile the manic laughing episode, a grin twitches on Gintoki’s lips. He can’t dare to face Sakamoto. He has to keep playing possum. It’s for the best. If Gintoki faces Sakamoto, he’s sure the next words out of his mouth will be: Aye-aye, captain.


End file.
